Now I have something real to be depressed about. No, I’m not talking about SAHM ennui, or a broken nail. I’m talking about poisonous breastmilk.

Okay, that’s unfair. My milk isn’t poison. But it’s not working for my 3 month old Drew. He cannot tolerate cow’s milk protein. Or at least that seems to be the problem.

I’ve dealt with several bouts of exorcist-style vomit recently (I know you’re jealous) over the past week, and so I had to figure out what’s going on. So now I have to cut out one of the main sources of joy in my life other than my family: cheese and milk.

What will I do to fill this void? Honestly, just stick it out. I think butter is safe for now–it tends to be the least offensive for sensitive kids–but there’ll be no cheesy casseroles, no tall glasses of creamy milk, no Alfredo sauce. The upside? Maybe my waistline will benefit. Maybe I’ll pass a little less gas. Maybe my arteries will clear a tad (although saturated fat has not necessarily been linked to clogged arteries…that’s another post).

In the meantime, I’ll settle for peanut butter. Or chocolate. Oh wait, he can’t tolerate those things either.

Bread, however, does not seem to be a problem. Dreams of a 24inch waist have now gone out the window.

Accepting adult responsibilities can be so dull. Being a parent requires even more careful action. I can’t just be a silly bum all the time because my children do, in fact, need a few positive role models.

That doesn’t mean, though, that I can’t goof off. And recently, I’ve been doing it a lot. It feels great.

Can you tell I’m not the only one? Katie insisted that Drew needed to wear the crown. Because he’s a prince.

I actually have quite a collection of crowns in the house. Two competition crowns I was gifted by my mother and then a bunch of plastic tiaras. Doesn’t everyone need one?

Okay, scratch that. Not everyone needs a tiara. But everyone does need the chance to unwind and be a goof. Some people are not easily prone to doofus-hood, but anyone without a quirk is a dull boy or girl. Bor-ing. And maybe even devastatingly unhappy.

I like to dance like a maniac. Preferably to the song Maniac (you know, that “Flashdance” song where Jennifer Beals spins in wild circles shaking her head like a…well…maniac). I like vulgar humor. I like watching fat people reality shows (usually while eating fried Chinese food).

At a book club meeting recently, I brought an Augusten Burroughs book that features funny essays. One of them is particularly disturbing and includes a bit about hardcore pornography. I realized while talking about how hilarious I found the book that I have a pretty liberal sense of humor. That I’m tickled by things that might horrify others.

But that’s okay. It’s my own thing to like that kind of humor. To cackle like a madwoman, enough to frighten my children into uncomfortable laughing of their own. While they wear their tiaras. And dance like maniacs.

Fair question. Really, I swear. I grew up in Memphis, TN. No, not in Germantown or Olive Branch. In midtown Memphis in the heart of the city. I went to college in that haven of urban grit Baltimore, MD. After that, though, I moved to Golden, CO, for a little less than a year. That introduced me front and center to the suburbs.

Sure, I’d been exposed to some of it before that. My dad and his family built a home in Kennesaw, GA, getting to decide such things as where to put the garage (left or right), the finish (stucco or brick–only the front mind you, since the rest was all siding), or other little things. Really, their house looked exactly like everyone else’s in the neighborhood.

Around the same time as my college graduation, my mother moved to Metairie, LA, and lemme tell you. Metairie consists of miles and miles of homes that look alike. Block after block of 70s ranch houses. It’s easy to get lost.

But I always said that really raw urban life was for me. After my time in Golden (which was glorious in many ways–mountain life was fun, even though I don’t remember much of it. I worked at Coors Brewing Company. Two words: free beer. ‘Nuf said.), I moved back to urban life, always living in midtown areas. I love the traffic, the stores, the dirt.

In Kansas City, however, it’s not working for our family. We live in the Northeast area north of Independence Avenue. It is wonderful in many ways. Beautiful homes with lots of character, people trickling into the neighborhood and buying old Victorian houses that need some TLC. Our rental is one of those houses. Our landlord has done some work to it, but it’s not finished. Can’t beat the price. Heck, we could even buy this house if we wanted!

We don’t want to buy it.

We’d like 4 bedrooms. We’d like a big yard. We’d like for Ryan to be closer to work. We’d like for us to have good schools for the kids.

So we’re moving to the suburbs. Well, I should qualify it. First of all, we’re not moving yet. We haven’t even put in an offer on the house we like. But we’re headed to the agent’s office this afternoon to put together the paperwork.

This house has 4 bedrooms, a nice yard, a decent commute (with access to public transit! YES!), and great schools, one of which is merely around the corner. So we’re making a move.

Will this compromise hinder my “process”? NOPE. It will help. Sure, I won’t get my 4 story Victorian mansion (which I could have here in Northeast. Yes, I could), but I’ll get a fixer-upper I can make my own. I’ll get convenience. I’ll get a safe grocery store. I’ll get Ryan commuting less. Lucky me.

Since May 30, 2010, I’ve been a stay-at-home mother to my children. At the time, I had two daughters Katie and Winslow, waiting for the arrival of their brother Drew. Is this blog to document all of our everyday activities? Nah, I do that somewhere else. And the world really doesn’t need another dull, SAHM blog.

So I’m hoping to contribute something different. Which means lots of people have done it before, and I’ve deluded myself into thinking I’m unique. I don’t care, though. I haven’t seen one like this yet.

What I’m going to tackle is a deeper issue than the daily grind of childcare. Instead, I’m here to work on ME.

In a nutshell, I’ve been miserable the past 9 months. Almost every day feels like the one before. Sometimes my husband Ryan is around. The majority he is not. Some days end in tears, others do not. But overall, I’m lonely, crabby, and completely under-stimulated.

And it’s all my fault.

So rather than wallow in my silly sorrows, I’m going to face them head on and do something about them. I don’t have a time frame for when I’ll finally feel better (a year is so…so…blog-turned-movie/book/Oprah interview), but I’ll know when I’m there, hopefully.

And if it gets to where I’m *never* at that happy place, I’m making a drastic change. I’m going back to work.